


By Proxy

by hawthorn_and_holly (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Invisibility Cloak, Kilts, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Who knew sporrans were so sexy?, almost pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 07:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13654149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/hawthorn_and_holly
Summary: Harry and Draco run into each other at a formal Hogwarts event five years after the Battle. Harry looks at Draco differently than he ever has before. They're wearing kilts, stuff happens - any more detail would be spoilers, my dears.





	By Proxy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Duchess_of_Strumpetness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duchess_of_Strumpetness/gifts).



> For the prompt: A and B are caught in a compromising position.

Harry arranged his sporran again, still wondering if he’d done the right thing by wearing no pants with his kilt. Oliver Wood had assured him it was tradition, though the smirk on his face had suggested he may have been joking. Either way, it was moot, given that Harry was now standing in the Great Hall, pantsless. Given the number of kilts present it was likely he was not the only one. Spying Horace Slughorn wearing a bold Slytherin tartan, Harry decided there was little comfort in the idea after all.

“Hasn’t changed at all, has it?”

The voice was familiar, and Harry turned with a relieved grin. “Alright, Dean?”

“Alright.” Dean looked around, prompting Harry to lift his eyes to the staircases, allowing them to rove over the walls, the paintings, the ceiling roses. Harry had to disagree – his most immediate memory of this place was immediately after the Battle, five years ago. The stone had been crumbled, blood stained the floors; it looked nothing like this spotless place, candles hovering overhead, tartan decorating the walls in great swaths of fabric. The people of his memory were broken and weary but this evening’s crowd was bright and excited, a rainbow of tartans declaring the Scottish pride they had gathered to celebrate.

“Still can’t believe she’s stepping down,” Harry said to Dean, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I heard she’s not that well,” Dean said. “Wants to keep teaching of course, but being headmistress as well is too much.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise. He and Minerva had kept in touch, and she’d confided in him her desire to return to teaching. “I far prefer teaching,” she told Harry. “Shaping young minds has its trials of course,” she’d looked at him mock-severely, a twinkle in her eye, “but I far prefer it to wrangling with the Ministry.” Harry had watched her stir her tea contemplatively. “Far better Bill learns what he’s doing while I’m still here to make suggestions.”

Harry had nodded, knowing how impressed she’d been with Bill Weasley’s teaching. He’d wanted to move back to England, to have a safer job now that he and Fleur had the girls; it had been he who’d proven the Defence Against The Dark Arts job was no longer cursed. Harry had known, of course, but it was nice that everyone knew.

“Anyway, it’s good to see the place again,” Dean said, pulling Harry out of his reverie. “Even if we’ve had to wear this get-up.”

“She’s always been very Scottish,” Harry agreed. The letter had broached no argument; the farewell party would be as Scottish as she was, and traditional attire was not optional. Harry had opted for a Potter tartan, on the off chance he ever needed to wear it again. “So how traditional did you go, in the end?” Harry asked, adjusting his sporran with a significant look.

Dean frowned, then grinned at him in understanding. “No chance I was gonna risk the chafing, mate,” he said, laughing at Harry’s sour expression. “Let’s get ourselves a drink, shall we?”

They made their way to the bar, picking up two pints of Butterbeer. Dean struck up a conversation with the witch to his left, leaving Harry at a loose end. He wandered over to stand beside a bust of a smug looking witch (‘Wendelin the Weird’ said the plaque), watching the crowd swirl before him. It was still a habit to make himself less noticeable in crowded spaces. Harry Potter would always attract some level of attention, and he’d had enough for a lifetime. From here he could see past students, parents, staff; they mingled, bright smiles and excited chatter somehow passing right through Harry.

“Skulking around the edges, Potter?”

Harry sighed. “Malfoy.”

He’d avoided Malfoy for so much of his school life it was ingrained. As adults both working with the Ministry, Harry found their interactions uncomfortable; he’d assumed it was a throwback to their Hogwarts animosity. Lately though, it had felt different, and he’d been even more reluctant to speak to Malfoy. Nothing was more awkward than wanting to shag your co-worker, unless it was wanting to shag the man with whom you’d shared an epic and mutual hatred all through school.

“Surprised you came,” Malfoy said, meeting Harry’s eyes with a smirk. “Nice kilt,” and the wandering gaze he slid down Harry’s body and back made Harry shiver. It had not helped his self-control to see Malfoy’s increasingly obvious come-ons. Perhaps tonight was the night Malfoy was going to be unambiguous about his position.  

Harry looked away, then swallowed hard. “You too,” Harry tried for the same tone but heard his voice far less confident than he’d been aiming for. “Slytherin tartan?”

“Of course,” Malfoy replied. “The French don’t generally have family tartans.”

“Fair enough,” Harry said, smoothing his own kilt. Malfoy’s eyes slipped away, looking over the crowd, though Harry was sure he could feel the blond’s attention on him. He looked less sure of himself than his conversation had indicated; Harry had been too busy with his own reaction to really notice how his eyes were flickering around, his brow a little furrowed. Malfoy’s fist was clenching open and closed as though squeezing something. It was an odd look for someone Harry always thought of as super confident. The Malfoy of later, the frightened boy leaning over a bathroom sink, walking stiltedly towards a welcoming Voldemort, was always overshadowed by the sneering eleven year old of their first year, so assured of his place in the world, of his father’s influence.

“You here with someone?” Harry asked, immediately wondering why he’d asked and what it would look like to Malfoy. He’d tried so hard not to signal any interest until now. As if on cue, the grey eyes turned to him, and Harry was astonished at how still Malfoy suddenly became, fist closed hard. His mind was clearly working behind those eyes, probing Harry’s meaning.

“No,” Malfoy drew out his answer as though tasting it, considering its truth. “No.” he repeated, more convincingly. “Why?”

Harry wondered how exactly he should answer that. _I’ve always been attracted to people I shouldn’t want_ didn’t seem right, and _I miss the thrill of dangerous situations and I was hoping shagging you tonight might count_ also required far more explanation than he was willing to give right now. “Come with me and I’ll explain,” he said, offering his hand.

Malfoy looked at it until Harry was almost going to give it up as a bad job. He raised his eyes against the disappointment and was about to make an excuse to leave when cool fingers touched his, threading between his own. Harry fought against his shock and slight panic to keep his face impassive, sliding his wand surreptitiously out of his sleeve. He muttered a Disillusionment Charm over both of them, feeling the familiar slide of the spell across his skull. Gripping Malfoy’s hand Harry moved slowly, slipping along the wall to the chamber behind the teacher’s table. The door closed behind them and Harry took out his wand, casting Muffliato and Colloportus, eyes never leaving Malfoy as he did so, fighting the Disillusionment. With a trembling wand, he lifted the Disillusionment from them.

“Well?” Malfoy asked. It took all Harry’s self-control to keep his mouth shut, giving Malfoy the look that had netted him a thousand – well, a dozen – one-night stands. He thought Malfoy might have picked up the same thrumming tension Harry had noticed but he still wasn’t sure, he needed confirmation from Malfoy that this was what he thought it was. He waited, noticing the tightening of Malfoy’s hand on his, the bob of Malfoy’s throat as he swallowed hard. Eyes wider, body swaying closer as though Malfoy was resisting the urge…Harry’s mind raced at the signs, the increasing certainty that he and Malfoy were on the same page.

“You sealed the door,” Malfoy said. His voice was challenging, calm, none of the uncertainty of earlier now evident in his body.

“I did.” Harry said. Their hands were still joined; Harry felt Malfoy’s thumb tracing a slow circle on his skin.

“So your kilt,” Malfoy said, eyes dropping to look over the tartan, “how…authentic did you go?” he raised one eyebrow suggestively.

“Find out,” Harry found himself saying. He heard the challenge in his own voice, releasing Malfoy’s fingers and spreading his arms a little, making the invitation crystal clear. Harry found his heart pounding as Malfoy didn’t reach for him; the grey eyes were still surveying his kilt, the shape of his legs in their hose. Harry had felt slightly silly since he first dressed in the unfamiliar garments. Only now was he reconsidering, feeling Malfoy’s eyes linger on the curve of his calves and trail up to the bare skin of his knees. Harry felt the tiny muscles twitch, hairs standing up under Malfoy’s intense gaze. His sporran was hanging over his groin, the slight pressure ghosting against his rapidly filling cock as Malfoy considered it.

“Hmmm,” hummed Malfoy, one pale finger tracing the outline of the sporran. Harry watched it with the oddest feeling that Malfoy’s finger was running over him. He felt the added press of that finger pushing the sporran into him, a caress by proxy. For a moment he thought it was incidental until his brain recognised the rhythm – a slow press and release, measured and controlled. As soon as Harry knew Malfoy was doing it on purpose it took on yet another level of arousal. His mouth was slightly open, and he breathed faster than usual; his heart was thumping and it was all he could do to keep up with it. The roughness of his kilt moving minutely across his sensitive cock was exquisite, far more arousing than the cotton pants he usually wore. Harry wanted to thrust into the friction, move his hips in counter to the slow rhythm. It was maddening, the light touch. The sporran was too rigid; a body was softer, would mould around his cock as he thrust into it; the sporran’s flat surface only pressed against a slim section of his cock, adding another level of frustration which Harry was rapidly losing the ability to contain. Malfoy still smirked, but it was the flick of his tongue at the corner of his mouth that finally forced a moan from Harry, his hips pushing blindly forward. Malfoy’s smirk broadened; this too had been part of his plan.

“Bastard,” Harry gasped as the tempo finally increased to match his regular thrusting. It was still not enough, the faster speed not solving the problem of too little surface area against his hard flesh. Harry’s fists were clenched at his side, eyes wide and fixed on Malfoy, whose face was still tilted a little down, watching his finger press against the sporran. Harry wondered if Malfoy thought he could come like this. He’d thought it was too little, a tease, but watching Malfoy’s face sent such surges of heat through his veins that it was increasingly likely he would end up soiling the inside of his kilt right here.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, finally meeting Harry’s eyes, the smug expression both familiar and newly tinged with desire. His hand pressed hard against the sporran, rocking it side to side as Harry thrust again, the pressure rolling across his shaft, rough kilt fabric dragging across the head of his cock. From the feel of it, the inside of his kilt was wet with pre-come. “Problem?”

“N…ngh…” Harry tried to reply, the harder press against his erection shooting desire through his body. “N…no problem.”

Malfoy stepped closer, his own groin pushing into his hand; Harry felt the thrust of another body, the frustration of the sporran still preventing their cocks from sliding together. Malfoy’s eyes closed briefly before opening again, his mouth hanging open. “Well then,” he purred, eyes amused and dark with promise, “Should we proceed?”

At Harry’s stuttering nod, Malfoy dropped to his knees, eyes asking the question even as his fingers skimmed the sides of Harry’s knees, circling higher and higher.

“God, yes...” groaned Harry, watching in fascination as Malfoy lifted the cloth, disappearing under Harry’s kilt. Without a visual, Harry’s skin became hypersensitive, his mind throwing out images of what was happening down there, in the dark between his thighs. He could feel Malfoy’s breath on his skin, warm puffs of air that started at one knee and moved agonisingly slowly up his leg, fingers digging into the backs of his knees. Harry’s head dropped back as he groaned again, Malfoy’s tongue tracing patterns up the crease of his thigh. His breath was coming fast now, and whatever Malfoy was planning had better happen soon or it wouldn’t happen at all. Harry’s cock twitched against the side of Malfoy’s head and he gritted his teeth, pushing back the visual of what he hoped was going to happen. Just as Harry started searching for images to help him hold off the orgasm starting to build in his balls, hot and tight, Malfoy’s mouth descended over Harry’s cock, swallowing it down. To his mortification, Harry shouted once, pressing Malfoy’s head to his groin, fucking into the hot wet nirvana as his balls exploded, pushing streams of come down his throat. It was intense, white hot pleasure ripping through his veins, his vision blurry where he found himself staring blindly at the ceiling, hips still stuttering a little. Belatedly, Harry released his hands, allowing Malfoy free; the sucking pressure as he pulled off made Harry’s knees buckle.

“Fuck, too much!” he gasped.

“Oooh, Potty’s got himself a lover!” The high, cackling voice of Peeves sounded above Harry. Startled, Harry’s eyes fought to focus, searching out the figure swooping through the air. Instinctively he grabbed at Malfoy’s head, holding him under the tartan fabric.

“Get out of here, Peeves!” Harry hissed, struggling to overcome the post-orgasm bliss slipping through his veins. Thank Merlin Malfoy understood what Harry was doing and sat still, barely breathing against Harry’s skin.

“Why, Potter? Got some lov-er-ly lass under there? She’s very quiet!”

“Seriously, Peeves,” Harry threatened futilely, glaring as threateningly as he could, given his current position.

“Oh, Peevsie’s gonna go tell everyone! Make sure you get a lovely-lovely audience in here!” With another cackle Peeves swooped out through the wall towards the Great Hall, laughing madly to himself.

“Get up!” Harry said immediately. There was no time to talk about what had happened; before Malfoy was even fully upright, Harry was fumbling to open his sporran, drawing out his father’s Invisibility Cloak.

“Fuck!” Malfoy was saying, eyes full of panic instead of arousal. He looked around in desperation. “There’s no other door, we’re trapped!”

“Hey!” Harry said sharply. When Malfoy looked at him, Harry held his eyes intently, taking a second to reassure him with his gaze. “Put this on, stand over there,” he pointed to the far corner in a nook behind a statue of a goblin. When Malfoy looked at him in confusion, even as he put the Cloak on, Harry added, “Invisibility Cloak. I’ll sort it. Go!” Malfoy nodded before pulling the hood over his head, vanishing into nothing. Harry took a deep breath and lifted the spells on the door, thanking Merlin that Malfoy had swallowed. If there’d been a mess to clean up, Harry would’ve be sunk.

Right on cue, a knock came at the door. “Harry?” It was Dean’s voice, so Harry straightened his shoulders and walked over, opening the door.

“Hey, Dean,” he said, hoping he looked relaxed, “alright?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean said, stepping into the room. He’d been followed by a small knot of people – Seamus, Luna, Lavender, the Patil twins and their dates; Harry recognised them as Ravenclaws of his own year but couldn’t remember their names. “Peeves said…” Dean trailed off, looking around the empty room. The rest crowded in, peering around expectantly.

“Peeves?” Harry asked. “I haven’t seen him, what’s he been saying now?”

“Um,” Dean said again, shooting a look at Seamus. The latter shrugged, also scanning the room. “Well he said you were in here with someone.”

“Really?” Harry said. It was more likely Peeves had been far less tactful about it. He blinked, then said, “Nah, I just…I haven’t been back since…in a few years. Just needed some space, you know?” He felt a pang of guilt at the immediately apologetic attitudes of the whole group. Harry hated using their memories of the Battle as a smokescreen, but it was unlikely that anyone would question it. Parvati’s date was subtly tugging her away, and she and her sister both slipped away, their dates rolling their eyes as they went.

“Yeah, we figured Peeves was making it up,” Dean said. “He’s a right shit still.”

“We sent the Baron after him, he’ll stay away from the party now,” Luna offered, sounding surprisingly sensible. Harry smiled at her.

“Sorry Harry,” Seamus said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “We’ll give you a bit o’ time, okay? Come and find us when you’re done.” He hustled the rest of the group out, Lavender looking slightly miffed that nothing more gossip worthy was happening. When the door closed behind them, Harry counted to ten as slowly as possible before crossing the room to the statue. From up close he could see it labelled as Urg the Unclean, a name he thought Ron had made up once. How odd that it was a real goblin.

“They’re gone,” Harry said quietly. Malfoy’s head appeared first, then his body, as he removed the Cloak.

“I’m guessing this Cloak was pretty useful for getting around the teachers,” were Malfoy’s first words.

“Pretty useful, yeah,” Harry said. He started at Malfoy, accepting the Cloak back without looking at it. “So…what now?” he asked, wishing he had more experience negotiating this kind of thing. If it was up to him, he and Malfoy – Draco – would make sure they spoke to McGonagall then get out of here. Together. That much was clear, even if the details were a little fuzzy.

“You tell me,” Malfoy said, parroting Harry’s words back at him.

Harry stared. “I want to take you home,” he said without preamble.

Malfoy stared at him. “What?” he said.

“You heard me,” Harry said. “I want more than a blow job at a party, Draco.” It was the first time he’d used Malfoy’s first name, and from his reaction, Malfoy – _Draco_ – had noticed.

“Okay,” came the reply. Draco stepped forward, fingers reaching for Harry’s, eyes locked on Harry’s mouth. Harry cocked his head as he looked at Draco, trying to figure out what was happening in his head. “Not what I thought you were going to say,” he clarified, and Harry understood.

“Yeah,” Harry said, stepping closer, his words brushing Draco’s mouth, “somehow I think everyone’s gonna be pretty surprised.”


End file.
